


If There's a Prize for Rotten Judgement (I've Already Won That)

by overratedantihero



Series: Strange is the Call of This Strange Man [2]
Category: Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), New Teen Titans, Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Age Difference, Cuddling, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, If DC Can Write Him Inconsistently, M/M, So Can I!, Uncharacteristically Sweet Slade, extreme fatigue, non descriptive nudity, sweet and sleepy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2019-03-12 05:05:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13540287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/overratedantihero/pseuds/overratedantihero
Summary: Dick overexerts himself to the verge of collapse, so he seeks out someplace he can rest. That someplace just happens to belong to Deathstroke the Terminator.





	If There's a Prize for Rotten Judgement (I've Already Won That)

**Author's Note:**

> Eventually I'll write acceptable ships again. Eventually.

Dick was exhausted. He’d slept maybe two hours spread over four days. The caffeine patches on his skin lost their edge after 32 hours; now they just itched underneath his uniform and triggered the sporadic tremors that wracked his body. His uniform was sticky against his feverish skin, but he felt cold even under the layers of thickly woven lycra and Kevlar. The cause of his unrest, the Arkham breakout du jour, was stretching the entire family thin, but Dick was the only one who matched Bruce in hours spent on the streets.

But, Dick had reasoned with himself, the vigilance was necessary: with every violent villain he felled with a crack of his escrima, he shuddered over what could have happened had he not caught them. Sometimes Dick didn’t arrive before there was collateral damage, and those were the moments where he gritted his teeth until his jaw ached to stave off the creeping fog of fatigue. He would rest when the city did.

But Gotham never really rested, and when he clumsily landed on a roof top and missed a step, coming dangerously close to snapping a limb, Dick decided it was time to find somewhere warm and private to nap lest he injure himself to the point where Bruce or Alfred place him on bedrest.

Dick had a well maintained mental catalogue of most of the family’s safe houses in Gotham, but none were conveniently located. Dick’s own was another mile out, and that wouldn’t do in his current state. And so, Dick made a choice. Not a choice that Bruce would make, or even understand, but Dick had spent the past two days watching buildings and vehicles morph and shift due to exhaustion induced hallucinations, and so Bruce could go fuck himself.  

The safehouse Dick chose was far from the standard. It was on the 27th floor of a high rise condominium, the sort that New Money bought as second homes in the city, to complement their homes in the country. He slipped twice, catching himself each time by the skin of his teeth, but he finally wrenched open the appropriate window and slid into the condo.

Without even closing the window behind himself, Dick began to wrestle weakly with his uniform. He managed to release the hidden zipper pressed against the back of his neck and he tried to tug it down the length of his back, but it caught right above his lordotic curve. He gave up easily, moving on to try and pull the uniform from his arms by its fingertips, but when once again confronted by resistance, Dick chose to flop onto the nearest soft surface, which happened to be a plush love seat. He curled into himself, hardly registering the room’s chilly temperature against his bared upper back.

 In fact, he was so deliciously close to sleep, he didn’t even register the figure that materialized next to the love seat. Or maybe he did, and he mistook it for another hallucination. Nevertheless, he squawked in surprise when the love seat was tipped over and Dick fell, sprawling onto the floor. Which… didn’t feel too terrible. He closed his eyes again, feeling the desperate pull toward sleep.

A boot nudged his side. Dick sighed and opened his eyes, squinting up at the looming potential-apparition.

“Didn’t think you were in Gotham,” Dick muttered, erring on the assumption that this wasn’t a hallucination.

“Arkham breakouts are good business,” Slade shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest. Dick vaguely registered that Slade wore nothing but boxer briefs; not even his eyepatch. Dick also noticed that Slade’s hair was slicked back and damp. Deduction: Slade was just in the shower, which is why he hadn’t reacted when he heard Dick’s likely loud breach.  

“World’s second greatest detective,” Dick giggled, pitchy and strained.

Slade looked concerned, which perturbed Dick, so he asked, “Do you hang around Gotham every prison break, waiting on a contract? Didn’t know Deathstroke was so starved for work.”

Dick wasn’t sure what answer he expected, but he certainly didn’t expect Slade to bark out a laugh.

“You misunderstand, little bird,” Slade murmured, crouching so that he was closer to Dick’s level. Good. Dick didn’t want to sit up any time soon. “The escapees don’t hire me. Several Arkham residents have open contracts on their heads. The payouts are small, too small to be worth breaking into Arkham. But once outside the asylum walls, otherwise small quarry is worth a visit to this city.”

Dick groaned, a painful sound. He didn’t want to know that. Even if Dick had spent the past week picking off escapees, sometimes violently, he was only detaining them. Slade was hunting them like deer. The love seat frowned at Dick.

“This is what you get,” the love seat said, “when you’re in bed with a mercenary.”

“I’m not in a bed,” Dick told the love seat, frowning at it. “I’m on the floor.”

When Dick returned his attention to Slade, Slade scowled and his brow furrowed.

“Kid,” Slade said slowly, “I’m going to ask you a few questions. I need you to answer me, okay? Try and stay focused. Do you understand?”

“Does that count as the first question?” Dick asked, grinning loopily. Slade did not return his smile. “I understand, get on with it,” Dick muttered, less amused with himself now.

“Where are you right now?” Slade asked.

Dick blinked. “Diamond District, The Joelle condominiums. Floor 27, Unit 2702. Current part-time safehouse for Deathstroke the Terminator.”

Slade nodded and then continued, “Is it before or after midnight?”  

Dick frowned. “I want to say after? I think after. After,” he settled.

“What did you eat for dinner?” Slade asked.

Dick shrugged. “An energy drink and a bar of chocolate, I guess. I didn’t really have ‘dinner.’”

“Do you have a headache, and if so, when did it start?”

Dick grimaced. “Massive headache. I’ve had a headache for a couple of days. I didn’t hit my head or anything, if you’re doing a concussion assessment.”

Slade visibly relaxed: his shoulders went lax and his face smoothed. “You’re sleep deprived, not concussed,” he concluded. “When was the last time you slept more than four consecutive hours?”

Dick frowned and began counting on his fingers. When he ran out of fingers, Slade shook his head. “You’re going to sleep in a bed. You will not set an alarm, and you will bathe first. And then, when you wake up? You’re eating. Protein, carbs, vegetables. Do you understand?” Slade asked, looking at Dick like Dick didn’t have a choice. Dick whimpered.

“Arkham,” He murmured. “Can’t. Gotta contain the break out.” He tried to get up, but his headache sparked behind his eyes and he visibly winced.

“You’re no good to the Bats dead,” Slade said. “And if you go out and try to fight like this, you will die. If you try to leave without sleeping, I’ll finish you off myself.”

Like with the zipper, Dick couldn’t muster the energy to resist. He flopped back on the ground. Slade stood, and walked out of Dick’s line of vision. In Slade’s absence, Dick began to doze again. He dreamt, sort of. He dreamt of running water and of violence and of Bruce’s face if Bruce knew that Dick was stretched on the cozy carpeting of Deathstroke.  

“Kid, stand up.”

“Fuck off, Bruce,” Dick muttered. Muscular arms wrapped around him, and Dick yelped as he was lifted into the air. When his eyes refocused, his nose was practically touching Slade’s.

“Hi,” Dick murmured. Then, just because he felt empowered, Dick bit Slade’s nose. Slade raised his eyebrows.

“Feel good? Feel justified?” Slade asked.

“No,” Dick confessed. “I’m cold. And tired. I think I might cry. Not for any particular reason, it just feels right. The love seat tried to start a fight while you were away. I just realized I haven’t checked in with Oracle or B in a few hours and they probably think I’m dead,” Dick babbled while Slade carried him. Dick abruptly shut up when they entered the bathroom. The tiled room was spacious and boasted a raised bathtub, which was filled with steaming water and smelled like chamomile and bergamot. There was a fluffy towel on the counter, next to what looked like a change of clothes. “Did you draw me a bath?” he blurted.

“Yes,” Slade responded, gently sitting Dick on an empty space on the counter, next to the sink. “Do you need help undressing?”

Slade was looking at him so intently and Dick suddenly felt like such a child. Dick squirmed and looked away, a ‘no’ rounding his lips. But then he remembered when he tried to take off his uniform earlier, and the idea of trying again and failing was unappealing.  

“Yes,” Dick said.

Slade complied, unzipping the rest of the suit, pulling away Dick’s boots, and helping Dick tug off the sleeves. When the uniform pooled on the ground, Dick abandoned his jock strap and cup and helped himself into the bathtub, groaning as he sunk into the heat. When he submerged all but his neck and head, Dick practically whimpered.

“Do not fall asleep in there,” Slade warned, collecting the clothes and depositing them into a hamper. Dick wanted to say something like ‘I know’ or ‘That’s a really expensive, high tech suit, don’t dump it into your laundry,’ but he sighed instead.

Slade left the room and Dick allowed himself to drift, lazily stretching his legs and sore back. Apparently, he did end up falling asleep because when he blearily opened his eyes, Slade was leaning over the tub, picking Dick up from the water.

“Shoulda washed my hair,” Dick muttered as Slade placed him on the floor. Slade kept an arm around him for support and snagged the towel from the counter, wrapping it around Dick.

“You can do that when you wake up, after breakfast,” Slade promised, draining the tub as Dick clumsily dried off. The change of clothes turned out to be a pair of boxers and Gotham Knights sweatpants that Dick had left the last time he crashed at Slade’s. There was also a t-shirt that was worn and too large to be Dick’s. It smelled like Slade. Dick pulled it on.

When they made it to the bedroom, Dick didn’t so much as hesitate before crawling onto the king-sized mattress. He crawled under the covers and nuzzled a pillow, moaning at the sublime sensation of a soft place to rest.

“Grayson,” Slade murmured quietly. Dick tilted his head to give Slade his attention, even as he dug his arms under his pillow just to feel the cool fabric drag against his skin. “I’m going to give you a choice. You are free to sleep here for as long as you want, uninterrupted. I will leave the condo and only come back when you’re ready to leave. The kitchen is stocked if you wake up hungry.”

Dick frowned.

“Or,” Slade continued. “If you want, I can stay. I’ll stay with you for as long as you want, and I’ll make you breakfast when you wake up.”

Dick smiled, a slow, lazy smile. Which then faltered. “What about Arkham?” Dick asked. “You had an… interest in the break out.” Dick burrowed into the pillow so that his face was partially obscured, hiding his scowl.

Slade shrugged. “Small quarry,” he said. “It’s up to you, little bird.”

Sleep was hazing the edges of Dick’s vision, he wouldn’t be able to maintain a conversation for much longer. He needed to make the decision now.

“Stay,” Dick murmured. “Swear I’ll sleep, if you stay.” The ultimatum was a useless addition, when punctuated by drooping eyes and an ill-timed yawn. Slade smirked and turned off the light before striding over and slide next to Dick.

As Slade tangled his legs with Dick’s and pulled Dick close against his chest, Dick languidly decided that the others couldn’t be disappointed over his brief hiatus from the field. Dick was, after all, keeping a dangerous mercenary off the streets during a volatile situation.

 _Really_ , Dick thought to himself, as sleep beckoned him under, _really, he was a martyr for the cause_.

Slade pressed a kiss into his hair.

 _Such_ a martyr.

**Author's Note:**

> I have bipolar depression, and I thought it'd be interesting to write some of those #sleepdeprivationfeels. Especially now that I'm medicated and don't have as many sleepless nights. 
> 
> Sometimes, a full night's sleep fixes EVERYTHING. Not prison outbreaks but, y'know, everything else.


End file.
